


Hope in All Its Forms

by arianakristine



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Underworld (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arianakristine/pseuds/arianakristine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Underworld, Emma searches the headstones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Snowbellwells prompted: “I really wanted Emma to look for Graham's headstone in the Underworld, wanted her trying to make sure that he had gone on to eternal peace and wasn't still suffering. That could have been a lovely moment and they missed out on putting in.”

                She tells herself that she doesn’t know what she’s looking for.

                The cemetery in the Underworld is vast, full of headstones both solidly intact and cracked along their foundations. She’s seen Neal’s and Johanna’s and even Walsh’s. But as her fingertips trail along the hard, uneven stone of someone called Kurt, her heart aches as she realizes exactly whose stone she wants to find.

                She’s not sure if she hopes to see it cracked or, selfishly, if she wants to see it tall and proud. She wants to see him, to touch his face and those wild curls like she never got the chance to before he was gone. She wants to ask who he was back then, to hear how his time was spent, to demand answers to why he _left_.

                She doesn’t want him to be suffering, though, could never wish for that. After a long moment her throat closes up and she hopes he has moved on.

                Her wrist feels glaringly bare, a smooth line of white where the bracelet had graced for more than a year after his death. As she moves, the chain of her necklace rolls across her clavicle, and her breath catches in her chest. She shouldn’t be feeling like this when there is another that has managed to brush past all the walls surrounding her heart, but another part of her insists that she _must_ feel it, just the same.

                She swallows thickly. The mist is rising over the field, thick and foreboding in the crimson glow. She lets out a low breath and closes her eyes. Instinct flickers inside her, and she turns sharply as her eyes snap open.

                It is there, as if it has been waiting for her the entire time. Thick block lettering scrolls out his name, solid and cementing. Graham Humbert, it reads, and just below, The Huntsman. And it is sturdily upright.

                She stares at it until her eyes turn scratchy, itchy in dryness, as her throat collapses into itself, as her heart jackhammers against her ribcage.

                It feels like it did that day, the day he collapsed in her arms.

                The wind finally sucks into her lungs, hard and painful, and her knees slam on the ground as she loses her equilibrium. The tears fall down her face, and she’s not even sure if she can pinpoint why. It is sharply familiar, the feeling of loss that resounds inside her.

                She realizes that some terrible part of her wanted to believe that the headstone wasn’t there, because (just like Archie, just like Neal the first time, just like Blue, and August) he wasn’t really dead, not actually. It had been too sudden, and during the curse, so maybe he was just waiting in some fifth world for her to find him once more.

                The part of her that had that beautiful, treacherous hope cracks and falters under the pressure of the reality.

                Her nails bite into her palms, and she takes the second to calm her hiccupping breaths. This isn’t the world she wanted to find him in. Not when she can’t bring him home.

                She squints at the headstone, not able to look directly at it. It hurts, even just the small glance. With a shiver, she brushes her hands down her arms and considers it a long, uneasy moment. Finally, she bites down hard on her lip and reaches forward, the rough stone scrapping against the pads of her fingers as she traces the engraving.

                She’s barely said his name since he left, barely managed. To see it now reminds her of why that is. Her nerves feel raw and frayed, a livewire waiting to be ignited with the barest tinder.

                She’s not sure how long she drowns in her grief, how long she lets herself be consumed by it. The light never changes down here, and she can’t clock the hours or minutes she stays locked in the emotion.

                She doesn’t feel better after it is expelled. She just feels resigned.

                She sniffs and brushes her palms along her knees. Carefully, she pushes everything under pragmatism. She stands on shaky legs, and instead tries to consider the one new piece of information: _The Huntsman_.

                She hadn’t exactly read the book forwards and back, but she thinks she knows who the Huntsman is … was. She remembers part of her mother’s story, a man with a wolf and a sacrifice. Somehow, the realization makes his death all the more senseless.

                A part of her wants to ask Henry, to see if he knows. He is the expert on his book, has practically memorized the entire thing. But another part of her is scared to hear it; she already knows what kind of person Graham had been, and to hear explicitly how his happy ending never came would be all the more heart-wrenching.

                (the look in his eyes as he cupped her face flashes behind the lids of her eyes and she blinks it away before it can settle)

                Either way, it doesn’t stop the resounding feel of failure that echoes in her soul.

                And the new, dreaded hope that she may still see him again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shouldn’t wander alone in the Underworld.

                Henry steps carefully through the barren town. It’s strange, the not-quite-right mirror of Storybrooke that this Underworld is.

                He knows he shouldn’t wander off alone, he really does. But there is so much going on in this weird waiting room for the dead, so much to find, so much he could do. He can help protect his mom, and maybe even help the good ones move on. He can be useful, he _knows_ he can.

                So he feels a little resigned when he turns down another nook, and catches the sight of cropped hair and blue eyes.

                Grandpa is in the distance, looking around the buildings, presumably for him. Henry’s shoulders slump, and grudgingly drags his feet as he approaches the older man. He is about to step from the alleyway and into view when he is stopped suddenly, a hand around his waist and another over his mouth.

                His eyes go wide, and he starts to struggle, but the person’s hold is tight and unyielding. A bright lash of fear catches him but, as he watches, the man he thought to be his grandfather pulls Cruella into an embrace, kissing her hard on the mouth. His fear extinguishes as he realizes that he was almost tricked.

                His body slackens. He knows that his grandpa has a twin, has read his story numerous times. He wants to kick himself that he was fooled by the appearance of … he thinks his name is James? He should know better by now.

                James and Cruella stalk off into the distance, the later laughing boisterously as the former pulls her in.

                He huffs, and the person holding him lets go.

                “That’s not David,” the person says unnecessarily. But the voice, it is accented and familiar and _clicks_ inside him.

                He wrenches his head back to meet the cobalt eyes he knew he would see. His mouth drops, and he gapes up at the man. He looks just like he did that last day, the day he came to ask if he was in his book, the day Henry told him about his heart, the day he _believed_ him.

                Graham gives a cautious smile, a faint quirk of the lips. “Hey, kid.”

                It’s like something breaks inside him, collapsing under the structure. He darts forward, catching him around the ribs and burying his face into his arm, tears down his face before he realized they were falling. Slowly, Graham returns the embrace.

                They never got this close before, not with Regina making sure _no one_ got this close. It had only been simple pats, small smiles, hushed talks after running away. But somehow it feels like a memory sliding into place, like an action he’d dreamed about finally taking shape.

                And then Henry remembers the part that he had locked into his heart, the memory of the terrors that had gripped him when he died, and he holds onto him tighter, the tears more audible against his shirt sleeve.

                A ragged breath is exhaled over his hair, and Graham bows his head as he grips him tighter. “I missed you, too,” he says lightly, and though it is meant to be joking there is a seriousness and a shakiness to his tone that makes Henry all the more bitter.

                Henry pulls back, needing to see his face again. Graham’s eyes are alert, rapidly bouncing over him with a small, easy smile on his face that opposes the tear that tracks down his cheek. Henry swallows thickly, biting back the sob that wants to escape again. “Where have you been?” he asks, finally, because they’ve been down here _ages_ and why is he just seeing him _now_?

                The older man’s face falls slightly. He takes a long breath and then reaches out to push back the hair that had gotten mussed from Henry’s forehead. “You’ve gotten tall,” he remarks simply.

                Henry wants so badly to be angry, to demand the answer, but his lip quivers instead. “You’re the same.”

                Graham gives a small shrug and nods. His clothes are the exact ones he wore that last day, the red tie and dark vest, and his hair slightly longer than usual, and his stubble is still coarse but trimmed.

                (He doesn’t wear his jacket, because that is still at the station, residing there as if it belongs)

                It makes him realize just how long it’s been since he’s seen him, and how missing the person that had been such a fixture in his life, before Emma, had left a gaping wound that Henry hadn’t had the chance to mend.

                He feels drained, his feet stumbling as he backs into the wall of the building. “It’s been so long. I wanted … it’s been so long.”

                “I’m sorry.” His lips press together and he glances away. “I can’t help,” he says after a beat.

                Henry’s breath tightens. “Because of Hades?”

                Graham gives a strained smile, but shakes his head. “Because of your mom.”

                His mind flashes to Emma so immediately with that title that it takes a full minute to realize he’s talking about Regina. And it’s like the realization he made, so long ago, is crashing into him like it’s new again. He sways in nausea, remembering all at once. “She killed you.”

                He says nothing, only adjusts the shoulder of his vest. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, avoiding his eyes straight on, and Henry understands the non-answer.

                Why does the knowledge feel new, like it was a breach from the depths, a long breath after an extended dive? Had he really locked that information so tight within him that he hadn’t remembered?

                (a brief flash, of dark hair and a swipe of the hand, but it hurts his head and he doesn’t linger on it)

                His mom … _Regina_ … it was so much easier to explain away the soldiers and the villages from long ago, when Henry was never a thought in anyone’s mind.

                Graham … he had died … was _murdered_ … not quite two _years_ ago. He feels sick.

                The older man sighs, and Henry turns to look at him through blurred vision. “They don’t remember anymore, or maybe they just don’t want to. They _trust_ her … so I _can’t_ help. I’m sorry.”

                “Mom doesn’t know,” he blurts out, tears falling forward once again but silently this time. “I couldn’t tell her … it wasn’t safe. Emma doesn’t know she had your heart.”

                His lips part, and he looks away. He looks pained, eyes shaded in something like longing. “Maybe that’s best,” he says softly.

                Henry watches him, and he is stunned to realize he knows what the look means.

_You kissed my mom?_

_I’m remembering this because I kissed your mother?_

                “You love her, don’t you?”

                Graham’s lashes flick over his cheeks. “It doesn’t matter, Henry,” he says slowly. “What matters is that you get back safe.”

                He steps forward, trying to be confident but his body is shaking too much for it to be successful. “You said you couldn’t help, but you helped me,” he asks. “Why?”

                He chuckles under his breath, a crooked smile tugging on his lips. “I was going to stay away, the whole time you all were down here. But I can’t help watching when you go off on your own.”

                Henry’s quiet at that. Graham had always been the one to track him down, whenever he’d run away. It makes his heart ache that it is something innate in Graham, not an order to be followed like he had sometimes assumed. “I can write that we save you,” he blurts out.

                Graham’s gaze shoots up, confusion crossing his features. “You can’t sa—you can’t bring back the dead, Henry,” he says, struggling through the words.

                But isn’t that exactly why they were there? To bring back the dead? Graham deserves it, just as much as Hook does. He knows that he just can’t write that he’s alive, but there’s _got_ to be a loophole somewhere.

                A plan is already half-forming in his mind, but he keeps quiet about it for now.

                He doesn’t need another adult telling him not to be a hero.

                “Mom … Emma, she’ll will want to see you, too, I know it,” he says instead. “She doesn’t say, but I know she misses you.”     

                Graham looks at him, jaw working a long moment. Finally, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” His voice cracks, and it almost alarms him.

                He wants to protest more, to tug on his hand and insist, but another part pulls back. If he can get him safe, there won’t be need for goodbyes. “Think about it?” he asks. “Please?”

                The older man presses his lips together and finally nods. “I’ll think about it.”

                It’s bright, the emotion that lights inside him. He doesn’t know if he should keep it, that hope that sparks.

                But maybe that hope isn’t unrealistic, not anymore.

*

               

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Emma, giving up is a hairsbreadth away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To go with the gifset done for the Gremma Appreciation December event. We’re nowhere near done. I’m just chipping away at this idea.

                She sits in the corner of the bedroom, rolling the ring on her necklace back and forth.

                It is warm now. The weather in the Underworld is strange, from blisteringly cold to tropically hot in the weeks they’ve been under. Her wardrobe of layers proved helpful to that, and she’d found discarded pieces here and there that sufficed until she could get back to her own land. She wonders a little madly if she should have packed a suitcase for the amount of time they’ve spent here. For now, she shed her red leather and thin white sweater, but her skin itched in a way that likely had nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with the stagnation.

                There seemed to be no progress made in this adventure. She had seen graves and heard stories, but there was no resolution in sight. Her soft vow before entering the boat had not been proven true, and she found that part of her vibrated with the possibility that she was wrong.

                If she’s wrong, then she came down here for nothing. She brought her family here for nothing. She put Henry in danger for _nothing_.

                She hates to admit it, because it is something so unnatural to this new her, but a very large part of her has already given up. This was not meant to be.

                And more than that part of her agrees, resoundingly.

                With a strange sort of stillness, she takes the chain in hand and lifts the necklace over her head. It coils in her palm, looping silver strands together. Her mind flashes to the bit of leather that she had protectively stored in the top drawer of her dresser, and her lips press together. She is doomed to this, isn’t she? Finding love, and then having it snatched from her fingers?

                This desperate act in coming here: was it for him specifically? Or was it to stop the feeling of eternal loss?

                Her head aches with no answer to be found. She thinks that this idea has quickened ever since finding Graham’s grave. His is the strongest loss in her mind. Every other loss has only been a compound of the first, a lash of pain over the terror and horror that gripped her when he’d collapsed in her arms.

                If she saves even just one, she thinks it may be healed. But something in her changed when she saw his grave. Because with the dreaded hope of seeing him again came the idea of _saving_ him, and it makes something flip in her stomach to realize it.

                (even though of course she wants Killian alive, oh, _God_ , does Graham alive sound _good_ and _right_ )

                Her heart is twisting, knowing that she can love both and want both safe but also delicately reminding her that though she came for one that the other is quickly taking precedence in her determination. But she hasn’t found sign of him, either. For some reason, it brings her resignation to a head; this trip was … _is_ … ill-fated.

                Carefully, she places the tangled chain on the bedside table. Her mind is so full of defeat that she can’t stand to spend another second in the strange mirror of a house she’d thought she could have a life in. She rises on unsteady feet and wobbles down the stairs in a daze.

                She needs a second before she can admit her defeat.  

                She passes her father on her way out the door, and she turns sharply to him. “Keep an eye on Henry.”

                The kid had returned to the house hours ago, looking every bit as preoccupied as he had when he left. There was something strange brewing behind her son’s eyes, and even the sharp, fearful tone she’d taken to reprimand him hadn’t changed that. His will to be a hero is destined for trouble, she knows, and she wishes not for the first time that she could have found a way to have him in Storybrooke and known he would stay put. At the very least here she had people to help keep an eye on him.

                Her father’s brow furrows and he turns slightly to the back rooms where Henry is. “Of course. Emma—“

                “I’ll be back,” she cuts in. She presses her lips together, trying to school her expression but knowing full well that she is failing. “I just … I need a moment.”

                David places his hands on his hips. Something twitches in his face, an awareness of what’s unsaid. He looks at a loss, but after a beat he nods. “Stay safe,” he warns lowly, and then reaches to touch her wrist.

                She yanks away, but nods stiffly. She doesn’t want to be touched, to be comforted right now. It would feel more like her defeat is secure.

                The door’s slam behind her, however, feels right.

                She starts in a fast walk, the slap of her boots against the asphalt resounding and comforting. Soon, though, the steps transform, faster and faster until the ache in her head becomes one in her lungs. Buildings blur, and her chest tightens as she fights to outrun her own emotion.

                So many faces flash across her memory, everyone that has ever crossed her path and been lost, both good and bad. She counts too many good.

                (not the Savior, can’t be the Savior when she keeps _losing_ )

                Finally, she pitches forward, a hard sob not quite escaping. Her breathing is ragged, and she shakes her head as her eyes squeeze shut. She has no idea how long she’s been running, how far she’s traveled in this dangerous place. But for the moment she doesn’t care. She just wants to keep moving.

                It feels good to be moving physically when nothing else is.

                She’s barely been walking again for five minutes when the rain starts. It is immediately torrential, and her hair and thin clothing plasters to her skin. She hisses in displeasure and curses her short-mindedness.  

                She has no idea where she is. The Underworld might mirror Storybrooke, but not enough. Everything is just different enough to make it a maze. The rain is almost blinding, and she swipes at her face as she searches desperately for safe shelter.

                Almost beckoning, a small dark cabin appears in her vision, just at the tree line. She runs the last few paces to the door and slams on the wood, shivering as the wind picks up. There is no answer, and she is impatient, so she tries for the knob. It unlocks easily and she practically falls into the depths, shutting the solid oak behind her firmly. The wind howls, and part of her feels a tremor of fear.

                This is like the beginnings of any scary movie she’s ever seen.

                The cabin isn’t empty, but there is a wrongness to it. It is strangely both lived-in but hollow, occupied yet vacant. She brushes her hands over her arms and turns, feeling the slap of her wet hair on her face. She feels like she is interrupting a life that has never been lived.

                She places the palm of her hand over the butt of her gun, carefully surveying the home for something she may have missed. She considers herself at least mostly genre-savvy, so she pulls it from the holster before she calls out, “hello?”

                There is no echo, and no response. The sky rumbles above her, and she hears the scratch of branches scrapping the roof. Her eyes narrow and she swallows down her fear. With one hand, she pushes the water out of her face, hearing the drips her drenched clothing is making on the floor. She steps forward, finding a blanket thrown over the armchair. She pulls it over her shoulders in an attempt to soak the wetness off her, and then heads towards the staircase.

                She climbs cautiously, bracing herself on the rail with one hand and the other gripping the SIG-Sauer tight. She doesn’t want to be unprepared, but anyone else here is already dead, so what will the gun really do?

                (She keeps the safety on, the illusion of protection, but it makes her feel fractionally better)

                The foreboding color that permeates the Underworld makes it appear even more like a bad horror film. The hallway’s window lets in a narrow strip of the light and two doors are ajar, black and red mixing in eerie patterns from the pane. She opens the first door to reveal a bathroom, cold and nondescript. The next, an empty bedroom, with flowy curtains and flannel sheets. The third door is the only one that is completely closed. The same vibrating stillness is there, perhaps stronger. She expects both nothing and everything behind that door.

                And yet, she us barely able to stifle a scream when she sees a figure sitting on the bed in that final room.

                He turns to her slowly, and any breath she has left drains out of her like a sieve.

                The blanket slips from her shoulders and her gun falls from her slackened grip. It makes a soft thud on the carpeted floor, and causes him pivot to face her completely.

                But he remains seated. His face is twisted in surprise, something like relief and shock and guilt painted across his features all at once.

                She steps closer to him, feeling like she is walking in a dream. Her steps are heavy, like she’s underwater, forcing herself forward when all her body wants is to be away. He will disappear, won’t he? Like all the times she’s pictured this before?

                She is suddenly close enough to feel the heat from him, and she quakes with the realization. It cracks something inside her, breaks open a piece that has kept a part of her heart locked. It splinters away, leaving her raw and exposed as she comes to terms with the fact that she is _not_ dreaming.

                He hasn’t moved. Just like last time, he waits for her.

                Years ago, he’d cupped her face and stared into her eyes like she was the answer to his every question, like she was all that mattered. She supposes that’s why her hands come up of their own accord, brushing through the scruff of his beard and thumbs softly caressing his cheek. He is real, warm, and his eyes close briefly at the gentle exploration she takes.

                She is still soaked in rain and confusion, but she can’t break her stare. His mouth parts and a strangled sound escapes, but it takes her a full minute to realize the cry had come from her. His eyes, always so deep, seem limitless in emotion. Somehow, still, there is that one sentiment that her heart hadn’t had the capacity to name aloud last time.

                She can admit it now. Her lips almost shape the words, and she wonders if they are as glaringly loud in her own eyes like they are in his.

                He had tried to kiss her, that last time, right before he’d collapsed in her arms. This time, she is the one to make that bridge, their lips sliding together bruisingly as she convinces herself: this is real.

                She can’t manage words, vocally or even in her own mind, and he seems beyond them anyway. He is fully intent on drinking her in, fingers tangling in her wet hair, demanding and yet still asking. She bites into him, answering, and taking her own time to discover the things she had never been able to.  His palms drag down to her chin, tilting her jaw up to better explore.

                He tastes the same. Dammit, he tastes _exactly_ the same.

                She breaks out of the kiss, feeling tears collecting on her cheeks and chokes out a low, whimpered, “ _Graham_.”

                He shudders, and presses his forehead into hers almost desperately. “I’m sorry—“

                She pulls him back, and this time while she kisses him her hands grip his tie (that same damn tie, that same knot, the _same_ ) and yanks. He pulls back partially, but can’t seem to stop his lips from seeking hers. There is a question there, but then his hands are at her waist, pulling her into his lap and sliding up under her tank.

                His shirt is damp from the rain she is covered in and her fingers are almost numb with cold, and yet it is easy to loosen the buttons once his tie falls in a heap by the bed. His shoulders roll, letting her drag it from his body. His nails dig into her side before he yanks the drenched white silk from her top. His teeth graze her neck, and the short bursts of air as he pants makes her startlingly aware of how _alive_ he feels.

                He’s not alive. The fact slams into her, stilling her breath.

                “Emma.” Her name sounds like a prayer, something sacred, in his soft accent.

                Her voice is cloying, thick as she finally does gain a sudden thought, as her stormy mind finally centers on the realities of what is happening. “I didn’t come here for you.”

                She didn’t even think of the other man until the words are out. She should feel guilt, so sharp right now, but her only regrets are that she didn’t think of Graham when she crossed the river.

                He stops his movements, fingers at her hips strengthened. He looks at her, his curls mussed and cheeks flushed. His dark lashes shade his eyes, but the silver in them glint in the low light. “I know.”

                Her eyebrows raise, and her stomach drops. “You know?”

                He nods. He doesn’t say anything, nothing to make her feel better or to feel worse. The guilt, nonetheless, is a hard stone in her belly.

                She doesn’t know what to say, or what she should feel.

                (if this was a test for her other love, she’s failed, but the thought is so fleeting when she’s looking into cobalt and she knows even if she feels bad that she doesn’t feel sorry)

                His touches begin again, but they are unhurried, soothing and slow across her spine. It is more like he is memorizing the feel of her, the senses they were previously denied. Her heart physically aches at the soft sparks his fingertips make across her skin, and her eyes flutter closed to relish the feeling. Each brush coaxes something from within her, something she’s covered messily in an attempt to heal. She remembers bearclaws and instant faith, slow smiles and electricity.

                She doesn’t think she understands how much she has missed him until just this moment.

                (and, God, did she miss him)

                “I was being selfish.”

                Her eyes snap open, surprised at the soft words. “What?” Him, selfish? _When_?

                She thinks that being so immediately ready to be with him is _her_ selfish act, even if it doesn’t truly feel that way (instead it feels right, natural, and she shivers slightly with that realization that more than a small part of her wants to continue).

                He trails his hands down, tangling his fingers with her own before he brings it to eye level. He plays with the digits almost nervously, and finally he gives a stiff smile. “I knew, but I just wanted ….” He pauses, his brow furrowed. “Wanted to show you that I haven’t forgotten.”

                She takes control of their hands and presses them over his heart. Her own is thunderous, realizing what he’s saying. He hasn’t forgotten. She hasn’t forgotten, either. Suddenly, her reasoning for tucking his shoelace away seems stupid, and she wishes it could still be on her wrist to prove it to him. “I … how I feel. About you, I mean.” She is sure she is blushing, her cheeks annoyingly hot. She doesn’t finish her thought, but a small smile edging the corner of his lips says she didn’t have to. “I don’t know what to … how to do this. What to _do_.”

                He tugs her forward, letting her curl onto his chest as he scoops her close, skin to skin, but there is none of the raw passion that she felt so acutely in such an act before. An insanely gentle kiss whispers across the crown of her head. There is something to it that feels like a goodbye, feels like him giving up or giving in. The idea slams into her, stealing her breath like a sucker punch.

                She squeezes her eyes shut, sobbing hard once as she grinds her forehead into him. “Don’t move on. _Please_. I’m not ready for it.” It makes her feel even _more_ selfish. Haven’t they found during their time in this purgatory that moving on is a good thing? But another part of her rages at the idea, of him gone to a place she cannot free him from.

                He flits a hand through her messy curls, sighing heavily. “Don’t worry, Emma. I have plenty of unfinished business. I’m not going anywhere.”

                Her stomach churns. She thinks about the aneurysm that took his life years ago, and the fog those that remained in this Underworld were in. “Do you suffer here?” she can’t help asking.

                His jaw clenches, and he is stiff a moment with his hands at her waist. Finally, he pulls back. There is a strange sort of smile on his face as he looks at her. “Not right now.”

                A sharp bark of a laugh escapes her, dark and out of place. She swipes at her face, catching the tears that came down with it. “I mean it, Graham.”

                “And I don’t think you want the answer, Emma.”

                Her lips form a firm line and she leans up. “Then I’m getting you out of here. I don’t care how. I’m the Savior, and I’m going to get you home.”

                He looks up at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and heat builds in her stomach again. “You and Henry are just the same, you know.”

                She knows. Oh, God, does she know. But her brow furrows curiously at him having that observation. “What?”

                He winces slightly and pulls back, making her slip onto the bed instead of his lap. To be separated reminds her of when she was trapped in the ice cave: bone-cold. “I know he’s here. I saw him earlier, and we talked. He wanted to save me, too.”

                She thinks about Henry’s face when he had returned back to the house, how she thought the determined set of his jaw was about his independence. He saw Graham? He wants to save Graham?

                She shakes her head as if to clear it, then looks back at him. There’s a certain vulnerability that she’s allowing right now (one she knows she’s let him see before), and the same is painted along the lines of his face. Slowly, she takes in his handsome features once more. “Kid understands, then. We’re going to take you _home_.”

                “It’s a lot more complicated than that,” he whispers.

                She cups his face again, needing to feel him between her palms again. “Sure. But Henry would let you know: it would be a pretty boring story without complications.”

                Despite himself, he chuckles, his eyes crinkling in that way she remembers. She loves someone else, but she loves him, too, and that feeling absolutely consumes her.

                And there is much to be done, much to be dealt with, much she will need to decide.

                But she has hope, now. And that makes her infinitely better than where she started.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifset found here: http://arianakristine.tumblr.com/post/154635675756/gremma-au-emma-finds-graham-in-the-underworld


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry feels trapped.

                Henry turns over the page, frowning at the words.

                It is just like the rest. It has nothing. Nothing he needs.

                This is the Underworld; shouldn’t these books have knowledge destroyed for its danger? For its power?

                Frustrated, he pushes it away. It lands awkwardly on the side of the bed with a muted clatter on carpeted flooring. The sheets are tangled over his legs, and he’s been holed up in this room for hours now. He just wants the answer, wants that escape he knows is there.

                A knock sounds on the door and he scowls at it. “I’m not hungry,” he grunts.

                Regina’s dark head pokes in anyway, lips twisted into a frown. “Henry, sweetheart, you should eat.”

                He looks at her, his stomach churning. “I’m not hungry,” he repeats.

                She brushes back her short hair and strides into the room with a plate of food. She never has taken a hint, never understands when he just needs to be alone. He’s not sure why he thinks it would now. “It’s your favorite.”

                He stares down at the sandwich, the childishly cut pieces meant for someone half his age. He wants to hurl it across the room.

                She sets it down on the nightstand and then sits beside him. She reaches down for the book on the floor and brushes off imaginary dirt with a raised brow. “I know you feel like you’re being locked away from everything, but it’s for your own good.”

                He turns sharply. This is too familiar. This is too much the old days, the twist of the lock and burying himself in the book. And it pushes those feelings he’d had when he’d seen Graham to the forefront, the drop of terror in his stomach.

                She killed him. She killed him.

                (She did something else, something more recently, something that would involve his whole family and extended family, and why can’t he remember?)

                She looks like she’s unsure, her mouth pursed tight. “You know it’s for your own good, don’t you?”

                He looks up with a glare, and then turns back to the book in front of him.

                “You don’t understand, Henry. Keeping you away is for the best.”

                _(you won’t remember a thing)_

His head is screaming, splitting in pain and he doubles over to hold his head.

                “Henry?”

                Her voice is tinged with worry, but she’s making it worse. What _is_ this? “Go away,” he grits out, and jumps from the bed. He runs out the door, intent on making it out again. It first started when he saw Graham. Maybe with Graham … maybe he can make it better?

                “Kid.”

                He runs straight into his mom in the foyer instead. He is still fighting tears from the pain, and his mom is holding him steady at his shoulders.

                He looks up, taking note of her appearance. She is messy, her hair in damp tangles and mussed at the scalp. Her eyes are bright, though red veins scratch across the periphery, like she’d been crying. But her lips are red and swollen, and he glares bitterly at her.

                “You’ve found Hook, then?” he asks automatically. It’s too soon. He still doesn’t have a plan, he needs more time.

                She cocks her head to the side and her hands slip off him. If he isn’t mistaken there’s a hint of guilt in her green eyes. “What makes you think that?”

                She does sound a litter bewildered, so he reassesses. He frowns, and shakes his head. She still looks like she does when she’s trying to hide that she’s been kissing someone. He remembers from Walsh and the guy before that, from the year in New York.

                (part of him feels that bitterness when he realizes that his memories are further back from that, older boyfriends throughout the years that didn’t really exist and they _should_ exist because he _remembers_ )

                She shakes her head again, and her expression is pulled slightly, strained. “No, kid, I haven’t found him. I found—“

                Regina’s measured heel clicks sound behind him, catching up finally. She waits for mom to finish, hands on her hips. But Emma’s mouth has snapped shut, her sentence swallowed back.

                Silence stretches between them all for a few beats.

                “Then what’s our next move?” Regina finally asks impatiently. She obviously senses the tension in the room but doesn’t remark on it.

                Henry watches his mom’s face as she seems to process Regina in front of her. There is something else, something he can’t pinpoint. She reaches forward and grabs his shoulder again, pulling him to her. “Maybe we should discuss sending Henry back with Mary Margaret.”

                Henry’s mouth drops open. “What? No!”

                Emma’s look is one familiar to him, one that was slightly sympathetic and yet slightly stern. Motherly. “Mary Margaret’s finding a way back early, it would make sense. And you can help with your uncle.”

                He glowers, face pinched. “I’m not done yet.”

                She cups his face gently, brushing back his hair with a smile. “This is a way to keep you safe, kid. That’s what’s most important.”

                He glances back at Regina, at the firm look on her face. Underneath everything, he still sees the jealousy. Why is she always that way?

_(As long as there are other people in our lives…)_

He yanks free from his mom, the pain doubling once again. What _is_ this? He pushes past her and past Grandpa walking in from the kitchen before storming out of the house.

                He hears the door shut more softly a second or two later. He isn’t surprised that she’s followed him, or that it would be his mom instead of Regina.

                (it still feels like ash to call Regina ‘mom’ after his memories were restored and he doesn’t know why except for the way he remembers now how parenting should be)

                Conceding, he crosses to the swings on the far side of the front yard instead of to the streets and slumps into a seat.

                Her arms are crossed in front of her as she approaches, and he is glad to see that she is the only one that came. “You aren’t going out by yourself again, kid,” she says sternly. Then she visibly softens. “Graham’s not always there to catch up with you.”

                His head snaps up. “You’ve seen him?”

                She offers a small smile and sits on the swing next to him. She grabs the chains in both hands and looks up at the frame. “Yeah.”

                “He said he couldn’t,” he muses to himself. He regards her again. He understands the guilt a little better now.

                She presses her lips together, and toes a pattern into the dirt. “I think there’s more going on down here, kid. More reason why I haven’t found,” she swallows with a grimace, “Hook. Why Graham’s been trying to hide from us. Why the only people that want to run into us are the bad ones. I don’t think Killian and Graham want us to stay. And I think it’s because there’s a bigger plot.”

                “He’s trying to hide because of Regina,” he spits out.

                She looks up, brow furrowed. She shakes her head. “Maybe part of it. But whatever’s going on, it’s dangerous. I need you to be safe, Henry. You’re the priority, you know that, right?”

                He swallows, and his own guilt clings through him. “I know, mom,” he says quietly. He does know that. She does always put him first, no matter what. But she doesn’t understand how much he needs to help. “But I need to keep my promise.”

                She furrows. “What promise?”

                He offers a small, hesitant smile. “To help.”

                “Oh, kid, you have definitely helped,” she says, chuckling. She grabs the chain and pulls him closer before letting go so they can swing in tandem. “But it would help if I knew for sure you’re safe.”

                “You _wouldn’t_ know for sure if I’m in Storybrooke,” he protests. “Things aren’t good there just because it’s bad here.”

                She cracks a smile. “Yeah, guess you’re right, there.”

                He ducks his head and then looks up. “Does that mean I can stay?”

                She blows out a low breath and then turns to the sky. Her lashes flutter across her cheeks a moment before she opens them. She looks strange in this red-tinged world, he thinks. “If you stay, there will be ground rules. Ones you actually need to follow.”

                “Okay,” he replies eagerly.

                Her smile widens, and she reaches to ruffle his hair. “You’re a good kid, Henry. And I know you want to be the hero. That doesn’t mean you have to bolt into action all the time.”

                He blushes slightly. “I know.”

                She nods once, firmly. “Good. Keep that in mind for once. Don’t be so much like me.”

                He grins. “It’s genetic.”

                She rolls her eyes, but she is still smiling. “Yeah, I know that. Even Graham does.”

                He wrinkles his nose and swings harder. “Do you love him, too, then?”

                She avoids his question at first, scooting back her seat and then joining him on the pendulous path. She looks thoughtful, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “Does that matter? He’s a good man, and he doesn’t deserve to be stuck down here.”

                His heart stutters. “So … so, we’ll bring him back, too?” he asks hopefully.

                Her lips quirk and she leans her head on the chain to stare at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she muses absently. She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Yeah, we’re going to find a way.”

                He pumps his legs a few times, feeling invigorated. He will have help. He doesn’t have to do this alone! He lets out a trill of laughter, releasing a tension he didn’t know he had. He can do this. _They_ can do this.

                She reaches out, slowing his swinging abruptly. “If your dad were down here, I’d find a way for him. You know that, don’t you?” she asks, her brow wrinkled in worry.

                He swallows. “Yeah.”

                He thinks that’s why he’s so excited to see Graham. Graham’s not his dad, not near what they could have been. But … but he’s something. Something before magic was real, before the book was given to him, before Emma came. He knows. He’s someone that _almost_ was.

                Her words make something falter inside him, though. Graham and Hook aren’t the only good ones down here. Sure, most of them have moved on. But he’s sure some of these people deserve it just as much. He feels a little of his hope flicker, closing off again. Is he so sure this is the right thing?

                She leans over and grabs his hand, squeezing gently. “We can’t save them all, but if we can save these two maybe it means something,” she says, mostly to herself.

                He strengthens, looking up at her. “Yeah. They were both taken too soon, so maybe it will give us some leverage! Because Hook was killed because of something Mr. Gold did, and Graham died because of Regina.”

                She starts, and her face twists. “What are you talking about? It was,” she pauses, and he can see her struggle. “It was an aneurysm. You know that.”

                He shakes his head. “Magic is real, remember? She had his heart.”

                “His heart,” she echoes numbly. Her hand floats over her own before dropping down. “Henry, what are you saying?”

                He doesn’t quite understand why she can’t forge this gap. Hadn’t it been obvious? “That’s why he hasn’t been close to us. Because of Regina. He told me so.”

                Emma rises and puts her hands on his shoulders. “No, kid, talk to me, okay? What are you saying?”

                He looks up in disbelief. “You mean you really didn’t think about it?”

                Her mouth opens and then shuts. She shakes her head in disbelief. “No, she wouldn’t be that cruel.”

                He shrugs a shoulder, bitterness rising within him. “She’s always been like that. She wants to win.”

                ( _… you can never fully be mine_ )

                Emma’s jaw quivers. “Please, kid. Tell me you’re kidding. I couldn’t—it couldn’t—“

                Henry feels that headache fighting its way forward, but he pushes on. “She took his heart in the Enchanted Forest. She killed him in Storybrooke. Right after he knew about Operation Cobra, right after he started remembering,” he lets out, tears suddenly fast and on his cheeks before he can stop them. “It was my fault! I told him! It was my fault for bringing him in!”

                She tugs his to her. “Oh, god, oh, Henry, _no_ ,” she says firmly, but cannot manage more than that. Her own tears catch onto the nape of his neck.

                There’s more, oh, there is more, but still there is something blocking it from fully approaching his mind. He knows it’s bad.

                (Maybe he doesn’t want to know)

                 He can only cry in his mom’s arms.

                His tears have calmed to hiccups when Emma finally pulls back. Her face is heartbroken … betrayed. “Henry don’t you dare blame yourself, okay? If what you’re saying is real, then it is nowhere in the _realm_ of your fault, you got that?” she says firmly.

                He hangs his head and nods, even if he still feels it.

                “If it’s true, I left you with her,” she says next, raspingly, and tugs her hands through her hair.

                He gulps around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t think he was ever as scared as he was during that time. But it wasn’t for him: it was for Emma, for his mom. He had been scared for _her_.

                She is shaking, but she manages a smile. “But maybe your theory is right, if it’s true. Maybe we can get him out of here easier.”

                “Yeah?” he whispers hoarsely, hopefully.

                She nods, and he can see the belief and determination in her eyes and it reverberates within him. “For now, let’s leave Regina out of it, okay?” she asks quietly.

                He nods. “Operation Shoelace.”

                Her brows pop up in surprise, as if she’d been able to hide that his shoelace was around her wrist for years. She nods. “Think we can handle both? Operation Firebird and Operation Shoelace?”

                He swipes his cheeks and nods. “Definitely.”

                He can save them all.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham never learned to hope.

                It’s dark out. As close to night as this place gets, the haze of red more violently blackened. The rains have hit again, lighter this time. Another beating of weather that never seems to make sense.

                He is still processing her visit, sitting on the top of the stairs and watching the closed door thoughtfully. He is dripping wet, having run through the woods a time after she had gone, piecing through what it all means.

                He is used to being in limbo; that’s what this whole place is. He is used to being a pawn for something bigger, a cog more than a soul.

                Something about Emma and Henry’s faith makes him feel like more. He isn’t sure if the thought scares or excites him: the idea that he is valued as himself. People care about him as a person … he doesn’t think he’s ever had that in the entirety of his lives or death.

                It’s dangerous for them. He doesn’t know what plan Hades has for him, but knows his position in this world hinges on something.

                He will need to make sure they are safe, and to do that will sacrifice himself. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, and nothing he won’t gladly do again. For them.

                He rises with a sigh and turns back to the cold room he calls his own.

                The door to the cabin opens once more, shutting with a slam behind. He spins, catching Emma’s eyes as her chest heaves, face twisted in hurt.

                “Emma,” he says, surprised. She had left hours ago, and it is close to what should be midnight in the real world.

                She takes a few deliberate steps forward before leaping up the stairs two at a time. Her hand juts out and her palm flattens over his heart. His eyes snap to her face, watching as her face borders on crumpling. “It’s there. It’s there?” she asks, her voice winded.

                He looks down to her hand and carefully pulls her off, twining their fingers instead. Her hand is cold and wet from the storm, and he rubs it between his palms to warm her up. “I’m dead, Emma. I don’t think anything’s actually here,” he counters gruffly.

                She blinks and frowns, brow creasing before she raises sea-colored eyes to his. “No, you’re here. I can talk to you. I can touch you. I can _kiss_ you. And I’m alive,” she asserts stubbornly.

                He barely smiles, the taste of her still lingering on his lips. He licks them and glances down at her own briefly before meeting her eyes again. Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know for sure, then,” he says. There is a beating in his chest, but there had been one before. He doesn’t know what’s real down here any more than he did in the fog of the curse.

                Her brow wrinkles and she looks up at him, her eyes more blue than green in the sheen of tears she is just holding back. “Was it gone?” she asks hoarsely.

                He hesitates a moment. He pulls his free hand through her damp curls, twisting a strand around his finger. She is in her red leather, the bright color that woke him up and now is dulled by the sheen of this place. But it is familiar and nostalgic … soothing. She is so lovely to look at; it reminds him of the only good things he had in life. “We were looking for it. That last night,” he reminds carefully.

                She whimpers slightly and ducks her head onto his shoulder. “She crushed it. She killed you?” she asks hollowly.

                “Henry said he didn’t tell you,” he murmurs.

                She shook her head. “Today. He explained it all when I got back. He—I … I left him. I left him with her.” She takes a moment, breath hitching as she hangs her head, hair covering her face. “After you died, _I left him with her_.”

                He must have a heart, since it absolutely twists at her words. He feels tears sting the back of his throat and he swallows thickly. “How was he?”

                She picks up her head and a few tears slide down her face. “After you?”

                He nods slowly. He recalls sitting at the edge of Henry’s bed, the boy lit up from the inside at the idea of someone else knowing and supporting of his theories. Those theories that were unequivocally truth. The boy who knew exactly what kind of person the woman raising him is.

                She shakes her head. “He wanted to stop Operation Cobra. He was afraid for me, and for everyone else. He … he was depressed. Absolutely and without a doubt. But he survived it. He was terrified, and he _knew_ , but he survived it.”

                Operation Cobra?

                ( _it’s need to know, Sheriff_ )

                He looks down, eyes closing as he took that in. “He’s a strong lad, that one,” he murmurs.

                She nods her agreement and whimpers slightly. “Why didn’t I just _believe_ you two?”

                He looks up. She is staring up at him with big eyes and the need to reassure her rushes forward. Of all the things he could be bitter about in this world, blaming her was never one of them. “Because it was too soon, and there was no proof. I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it when we kissed.”

                She pulls her lip between her teeth and something in her features change. Uncertainty mixed with anticipation. “You remembered? After ….”

                He feels his lips tweak up, unable to stop the smile. “Yeah.”

                She shivers. “What does that …?”

                He knows the answer, feeling it bleed through him. But he stays quiet, heart thunderous. She came for someone else, he reminds himself. Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s the only thing that is.

                She swallows visibly and ducks her head, cheeks brightening pink. “Back then … for that second _before_ … I think I knew.”

                Her voice is cracked, emotion bright. He feels his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he struggles with this knowledge. She knew, she _knows_. He wishes things were as simple as that.

                She steps to him, dark blue-green narrowed on his face. She reaches up to the button at the top of his shirt. She keeps her eyes on him a long moment before looking down and separating the cloth. Her moves are deliberate and slow, methodical. There is nothing sexually charged in the action, though the flare of it sparks behind it still. She pushes the fabric apart and places her fingers feather light across his pectoral. A long moment beats before she flattens her palm across his heart, pressing gently.

                “What are you doing?” he asks in a whisper, subconsciously inhaling as her head ducks to examine him. She smells softly of petrichor and other earthy scents, so much like the things he associates with the idea of _home_.

                Her eyes bounce across his chest before she looks up at him again. “It feels different,” she says simply.

                He presses his lips together and covers her hand. “Maybe it is there, then,” he concedes.

                She smiles through a sheen of tears. Her hand slips down his chest while keeping a carefully snug contact, blooming goosebumps across his skin in her wake even as the warmth of her skin soothes the memories of before.

                He wants to touch her back so much it aches, but he keeps still. He can keep patient.

                She is somehow both hesitant and bold, bringing another hand to help explore as she traces the muscles under his skin. She turns her face up to him again as her fingers catch into the waist of his pants. “I haven’t made a decision,” she warns huskily, her pupils dark and dilated.

                He knows this is her way of asking, making sure that he’s okay with uncertainty. He’s not entirely sure he is, not entirely sure that if he bends to kiss her now, if he takes all she is willing to offer, that he won’t be as possessive of her as he knows he could be.

                On the other hand, he wonders if this is his only chance. Those barriers that keep him here are strong and towering. How much more would it mean to regret never taking the chance?

                He cups her jaw in one hand, watching her expression carefully. “You might feel guilty,” he reasons, but uses a thumb to trace her cheek.

                She nods once, leaning into his touch. “Probably. I might hurt you,” she counters.

                He nods and tilts his head a little closer. “Probably,” he agrees, a soft puff of exhale over her lips.

                Her brow furrows and her lip trembles. He can see the war in her until she leans fractionally closer. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?” she asks.

                Instead of answering in words, he kisses her. He tries to be soft and undemanding, but the urgency in him doesn’t allow it. She responds just as passionately, deepening and wrapping herself around him more fully.

                There are no tears to cut her off this time as she sheds his clothes. No more questions to pull them away as he strips her down. No more things unsaid forcing them back as she tastes his skin and he bites into hers.

                They are aware of each other’s terms, the uncertainty and tentativeness of their bond. They are aware of each other’s feelings, where hers also lie.

                But they are taking the chance that is afforded to them.

                And he has never seen anything as beautiful as ecstasy painted across her face.

                He wraps himself around her after, tucking her close until she sighs against him. She is warm and real, every point of her skin on him electrifying.

                He holds her close, hand tangling in her hair and smoothing down. They are both strikingly awake. She is stiff at the joints, some part of her fighting relaxing into him, neck craned up and staring at the beige wall near the door.

                “Does it seem brighter?” she asks after a long moment of silence.

                He pauses his lazy action and considers. “It always does around you,” he says honestly, and hopes she knows he isn’t being foolishly romantic. “But I suppose. Less red, perhaps.”

                She leans up a fraction and scans the small room. “What does that mean?”

                He stops trying to relax and instead rolls his eyes to the ceiling. He knows what he wants it to mean, but that doesn’t make it truth. “I don’t know,” he answers instead.

                She sits up and pulls the sheet to her, shivering slightly. He stays still, not wanting to disturb her as she looks deep in thought. Her knees come up to her chest, and she wraps an arm around them.

                “It’s okay,” he murmurs when she doesn’t say anything else. “I don’t hold what comes next against you.”

                She turns to him, her face blank but her eyes wide and sad. “I should have been stronger,” she whispers.

                He leans up, sliding his arm around her waist and pressing his face into her neck. “I’m glad we got this,” he murmurs into her skin. “As long as you don’t regret it too much.”

                She cards a hand through his hair and tilts his face up. She kisses him languidly, heat just below the surface. “I probably should,” she says when they part. “But I don’t. I need you.”

                He flushes at the present tense still in her words, biting into the next kiss. When it breaks, still pressed close, he touches his lips to her nose and mouth and chin. He doesn’t express his own sentiment, the need he has for her as well. She knows well enough.

                She touches his face, soft fingertips across his skin. “You know, don’t you?” she whispers. Her hand trails down over his heart again, pressing hard. “You feel it?”

                He nods and leans his forehead into the crook of her neck. “But I’m not the only one. And that’s okay,” he replies.

                She looks mournful at that, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

                He wonders, at least for a moment, if this is meant to be their closure. Before she can move on, before she can commit to the other man.

                If he couldn’t feel the conflict and overwhelming love within her, he might have let himself believe it. It might be easier than the not knowing.

                It might be easier if his heart didn’t wish to _hope_.

                “Graham, I—“ her words catch, and then she furrows her brow in determination. Her eyes are serious as they set on his, palms on his face. “I love you.”

                He grabs her waist and pulls her back down to the sheets, hugging her close. He restarts soothing motions down her arms and back, squeezing his eyes shut.

                He can’t hope. He _can’t_ hope.

                He feels hot tears collect in his neck, feels his own threatening at the back of his throat. He shudders out a low breath. “We should find a way to get Henry out of here,” he says finally, changing the subject completely.

                She nods against him, hands tightening around his back. “I tried, but he’s so stubborn,” she murmurs.

                “Wonder where he gets that from,” he says wryly.

                She doesn’t respond to the tease. “He wants to be a hero. And he wants to save you. Graham … you know what you are to him, don’t you?”

                He ducks his head. He knows what he’d like to be for him.

                She shakes her head. “He won’t go until we find a way. That’s why I came, we … we had a long talk.”

                He raises his brows and then shudders. “He wants to be like you,” he says finally.

                She presses her lips together, and then kisses his chest, reassuring. Finally, she relaxes, muscles melting in a way that is almost resigned. “He’s right, though. How do I know for sure that he’s safe in Storybrooke?”

                “He’s away from Regina there,” he replies flatly.

                She’s quiet a long moment, but doesn’t tense again. “For how long? She’d follow. As much as she claims she’s my friend, she wouldn’t stick around if Henry weren’t here.”

                “If it weren’t for him, I’d make sure she’d _stay_ down here,” he says darkly, feeling the heat of the idea itch through him.

                She looks up at him, fingers tracing his chest. “We certainly have strange pillow talk, don’t we?” she says instead of responding.

                “Sorry,” he says simply, and almost voices that it will be different next time. He forgot a moment that there might never be one. It makes the anger at Regina threatening to consume him a little brighter. What might they be if Regina never crushed his heart that night?

                She rests her head, hands absently caressing his side. “I wish I could let you do that, Graham. For you, I wish I could.”

                He scratches through her hair, heaving a sigh. “I won’t,” he reassures. “Or rather, I don’t think I could.”

                She touches his wrists, and then moves to cover his shoulders as she rises over him. With a certain deliberateness, she traces lines across his skin. “Why can I feel it?” she murmurs, then meets his eyes.

                He realizes exactly what she’s finding, the invisible wounds all over him. It stuns him slightly, but more so that she doesn’t ask _what_ they are. She just knows, and his heart breaks a little more. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But it’s why I can’t.”

                She places a palm to his stomach, the gash that had ripped him open before stitching neatly back as if it never happened. “From her?” she asks solemnly.

                He swallows. “Some. But also from here.”

                The furrow deepens, and he just barely catches the protectiveness in her gaze. “You would kill her, given the chance?”

                He doesn’t want to lie to her, even if he can plainly see her struggle with the idea. He supposes it feels counter to everything he was before. He had been timid as Sheriff, hesitant. It wasn’t all the curse; years with Regina made him that way, too. But he is still the wolf, somewhere in him, and he still craves that vengeance. “Yes.”

                She gulps and braces herself on his shoulders again. “Even with Henry?”

                “More like _for_ Henry,” he asserts gently. “For you. For the girl I let run all those years ago. For the woman in the tower. For everyone else she killed or hurt or threatened, and then for me, too.”

                She takes that in, then falls against him once more, nudging into his chin. “I don’t agree. But I also agree, if that makes sense.”

                He nods. “Yes, Emma, it makes sense.” She comes from a family that wouldn’t kill, so he understands. He wouldn’t ask that of her. That is his burden. Had he the chance, he’d do it for her.

                “I killed someone. She wanted to hurt Henry, so I killed her,” she admits in a hoarse whisper.

                “Good,” he replies truthfully.

                She swallows. “I wish I felt like it was good. I had to do it, and I’m _glad_ I did it to save him. But it doesn’t feel good.”

                He takes her hand, linking their fingers in and out, piecing through the words. “I don’t know that I ever felt good after killing anyone. Before her, I mean, when it was my choice. But I never regretted it, either. I would feel relieved that I was able to protect my family.”

                She turns her face to him, and she reaches to rest her fingers against his jaw in a way that feels reverent.

                He presses his lips together before finally venturing, “But in the end, I think I would find some satisfaction in killing her.”

                She squeezes her arm reflexively, winces. “I’m glad you’re honest about it,” she says. She considers a moment, and then a look of guilt washes over her. “I wanted to kill her … several times, in fact. Something always stops me.”

                He doesn’t answer her, doesn’t think she needs it. He kisses the side of her head, cuddling her closer into his body.

                “Will you follow me, if I needed you to?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

                He nods. “You should know that much now. You, Henry … you’re the only ones I’d follow at this point.”

                He can feel her smile into his skin, fleetingly. “Even—even if I didn’t chose you?” she asks haltingly.

                His heart twists and his throat narrows, but he manages a sharp nod. He will _always_ fight for them; they are his pack, whether or not they will ever be together. He bites down something self-deprecating; he doesn’t need her feeling sorry for him.

                They are silent, no words needed any longer. He listens to her breathing, the long patterns that show no signs of sleep.

                “I need water,” she says in a breath.

                He nods, and feels a heaviness. Leaving this space will mean their easy intimacy is over, could mean that it’s the end of it forever. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

                She stops him with a hand on his shoulder as he begins to rise, and she cups his face. She leans in, kissing him deeply, tongue sweeping against his. The heat flicks within him and he responds with equal fervor. “Again, first?” she asks heavily against his lips.

                He nods rapidly and presses her down, grasping her wrists to pin over her head as he loses himself in her again.

                If anything, he is determined to be sure her choice isn’t easy.

                The place he stays in, always an empty house with vast empty rooms, actually feels lonesome when she finally drags herself away as the light begins to slip back into the sky.

                The red is more vibrant, more threatening now.

                He _feels_ empty when the door slips shut.

                He swallows and turns back to the kitchen, feeling as if in a fog. Why does he want to hope, wants that flicker of optimism back in his heart? He shouldn’t; she isn’t sure what she wants and he cannot force her to choose.

                But he still hopes.

 

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
